


conscience doth make cowards of us all

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Memories, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Letters, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: Winter is a dreary season.Jaskier receives a letter and a gift. He doesn't particularly want either of them.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 59
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #003





	conscience doth make cowards of us all

Winter is a dreary season.

Jaskier has always thought so, even when he was much too young to know words like _dreary_. It can be beautiful, of course, he knows that; but the cold and the slush and the endless slog of months where nothing is growing, nothing is _living_ , not really, has always…well, bummed him out.

It’s why he was always so thrilled, as a boy, when his family would travel to the Attrean coast for the colder months. Attre is warmer, not as much snow – if any – and even when it’s dreary, Jaskier has always loved the ocean. There’s something about it that calls to him; he’s been led to believe he’s not the only one.

Humans naturally want to return to water.

But frozen water isn’t exactly the same.

He spends most of his winters in Oxenfurt, now; teaching, mostly, though there’s also the occasional performance. It’s nice, he enjoys the city, and he loves his alma mater, but –

Well, but.

It’s cold in Oxenfurt, so far north and so close to the river and the ocean both. It snows a lot, and when it’s not snowing, the rain freezes on the ground, making daily life downright hazardous. Within the city walls it’s not as bad – though you have the smell of thousands of people to contend with, then, and some days Jaskier isn’t sure it’s worth the trade.

It’s also _lonely_ in Oxenfurt. Of course, there’s students and old friends and many, _many_ chances for company, but – but there’s no Geralt.

And that, that right there, is his problem.

Or, well, it’s one of them.

The other problem is burning a hole in his pocket as he walks among the trees outside the Oxenfurt walls. The snow crunches underfoot, and he’s definitely not dressed for this excursion, but he just…needed to be out of the city. Needed to be somewhere he could…well, he’s not sure _what_. But the woods outside the walls seemed the best bet, so as soon as he’d pocketed the key and the letter it came alongside, he’d walked here.

_Here_ is sort of an undefinable place about a twenty-minute walk from the walls and an additional fifteen-minute walk into the woods, going…approximately west. Jaskier isn’t lost – the trees aren’t thick enough for that – but he doesn’t have a name for where he is.

That feels right, somehow.

His feet ache from the strain of walking so much and so quickly in boots that really aren’t made for travelling, so he finds a fallen tree, brushes the snow off of it, and sits.

Even without looking at the letter, he knows exactly what it says. He’s terrified to open it and find himself proven right. He’d recognized his sister’s handwriting immediately; so many years learning to write next to her, practicing his letters with her as his makeshift teacher when the tutors were gone, sending little notes to each other through the servants. He misses his siblings.

He just wishes he didn’t have to go back to Lettenhove to see them.

Though he supposes, if he’s correct about this letter, the biggest stumbling block for his return home is gone.

_Fuck_.

His hands tremble as he pulls the letter and the key from his pocket. He sets the letter to the side for now, knowing he can’t handle it yet, and instead studies the key.

It’s beautiful, really. Well-crafted, meant to be pretty as well as functional. His sister has threaded a chain through the top and added a little charm, a gorgeous pearl. _To remind you of home_ , he can practically hear her voice, and his chest aches. It’s been years. He wonders if she looks more like their mother, now. He knows he does.

“ _Fuck_.”

His trembling has worsened when he grabs the letter. He’s still not ready, knows he can’t handle it, but there’s only so long he can put it off.

He’s old enough now to know that avoiding things doesn’t make them go away.

The seal makes a sound like a snapped bone when he breaks it; fitting, he thinks, if deeply morbid. Geralt would laugh at his morose thoughts. Or maybe he wouldn’t, considering.

Gods, he hasn’t seen Geralt in so long. It’s pathetic how much he misses the Witcher.

He stalls for a handful of seconds by smoothing the letter out along his thigh, carefully bending the creases so it sits mostly flat. Once that’s finished, though, he no longer has a choice. Still shaking, breath coming in odd fits, he lifts the letter and starts to read.

_Dearest Julian –_

_I wish I didn’t have to write this letter. I truly do. But we both know that wishing never does anything,  
and so I’m writing the letter, as I must._

Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment and take a deep breath, as steady as he can make it. It’s still worryingly shaky, much too close to a sob for comfort. Though he supposes that’s why he’s alone in the wilds right now.

_I’m sure you know what I’m writing to say. The key would give it away, but I must write it out, just in  
case, to ensure there’s no misunderstanding. It’s been a long few days, and this is not the least or worst  
of my burdens. I’m sure you know that, too. And I will admit, my dear brother, some amount of   
bitterness toward you in this. Though I understand your reasons, and always have, it is hard not to wish  
that you were here, as the eldest sibling, to handle the mess._

_Father has passed away. A wasting sickness. The healers think it was the same that took mother._

Even expecting it, _knowing_ what this letter would contain, it hits like a well-placed punch. Jaskier finds himself doubled over, leaning into his own knees.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, all breath and no sound and tasting like tears.

Tears.

He’s crying.

“ _Fuck_.”

It takes him a long moment to be able to finish reading the letter. Long enough that his fingers have gone numb, that the sun has begun to set.

_As the oldest son, you have inherited his title, of course. Viscount de Lettenhove now refers to you,_  
_dear brother, and there are, unfortunately, responsibilities that come alongside that. Of course, while_  
_father has been ill, I have been running the estate alongside Adrian; I can continue to do so._

_But you must come home, Julian. You know I would not ask it if you if it was not necessary._

_I expect your letter soon. With love from all of us,_

_– Eliza_

Jaskier stares at his sister’s signature for a long time, just tracing the letters with his eyes. The shape of it is as familiar as the rest of her handwriting; in his mind’s eye, though, he sees it not neatly scrawled in a letter, but sloppily carved into a dining room table, a pillar, an ancient oak tree behind the kitchens.

He supposes that, if nothing else, his childhood home is close to the coast.

He’s been wanting to go.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry that the only "old" letters i've ever read have been from the victorian era,,,


End file.
